This story is sexual fantasy fiction, primarily about control and humiliation between adult men and includes water sports, destruction of clothes, shaving and wet/messy play with some sexual situations. If you object to any of this then read no further. Any resemblance to persons past or present is purely coincidental.

Four years ago I was getting ready to publish the final part of Remote Controlled and while I briefly concidered a sequel, I felt it was best left the way it was. While revisiting Remote Controlled and The Sports Bar, it did feel like Jamie's story had not finished - we got to know what happened to Dan and Drew in Remote Controlled. Once I started writing it just flowed and it was so nice to be back in The Sports Bar some six years since I started writing it. I wasn't suppsoed to be an Easter story but it kinda fitted with the themes and there are certainly some Easter Eggs in there! Remote Controlled really started with The Sports Bar and now we write the final chapter in that World with 'Ballad'. It feels fitting and I hope you enjoy all the filth coming up!

Tales From The Sports Bar - The Ballad of Jamie and Steve

Hi, Jamie here. It’s been quite some time since I met Steve on that fateful night at The Sports Bar, and a lot has changed since then. Our relationship quickly became one of partners, both in life and business. I eventually quit my high-powered stressful executive job and started running Steve’s fetish store above the bar. It was certainly a change of pace but it became apparent that that was something I could easily cope with. I was much happier for it; happier but poorer.

While I was keeping shop, Steve was usually downstairs in the basement, creating even more outlandish shows. I have been meaning to document some of the events at the bar and Steve’s crazy shows for some time. Just for posterity. Just to preserve the deeds of the wicked mind put to good use. Just because I know you’re a sick puppy who’s going to enjoy the fuck out of it.

Not everything happens in the basement bar however. Sometimes even the most trivial of interactions left me red-faced. Let me give you an example . . .

*  *  *

"Hey!" Steve exclaimed with a big grin on his face as Jamie entered the shop. "You're back!"

Jamie found himself on the receiving end of a huge bear hug. He had only been away for a week—the longest time he and Steve had been apart since that fateful night in the basement bar—but it was a nice way to be welcomed back to what he now considered home.

After a few moments, Steve took Jamie's face in his hands and kissed him deeply. Jamie had no choice but to accept, and gladly did so, but he knew the firm hands placed on either side of his head were an example of soft power.

Eventually they broke off the kiss, and it was only then that Jamie noticed everyone in the shop was staring at them. He blushed at once again being the centre of attention.

"I do hope you're not wearing underwear," Steve growled playfully into Jamie's ear. He eased his hand down Jamie’s torso and slipped his fingers under the waistband of his Nike Tech Fleece track pants.

"Ah, good," Steve said, smiling. Jamie's eyes closed as he felt Steve's hand cup his balls then slide up his erection. Soon, his cock was being moved up and down, the sensitive head being rubbed against the soft fabric of the pants. Jamie sighed at the sensation.

When Steve finally withdrew his hand, Jamie looked down. He was horrified to see that Steve had left his erection jutting out horizontally, causing an obscene tent against the stretchy material, his white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt rucked up against it.

Not that he needed to worry overly about that because Steve was in the process of lifting the shirt higher and higher up Jamie's long torso. He reflexively raised his arms, allowing Steve to easily remove the shirt entirely. He had been conditioned well.

Steve gave an approving nod and said, "Perfect. Right, time for you to keep shop and for me to prepare tonight's show!"

Jamie looked around the shop, noticing that Steve's antics had garnered everyone’s attention. One lad had his hands down his pants, seemingly readjusting himself. Steve clocked him too and smiled, holding up Jamie’s shirt. "You want to buy his polo shirt?" he asked him.

The lad's eyes widened. He stumbled through an answer but eventually got it out: "Um, yes, um, can I?"

"Of course!” Steve replied. “£100!" He tossed the shirt towards the lad who caught it and immediately raised it to his face to inhale deeply of Jamie’s scent.

"And 20% off anything in the shop for the next 30 minutes to everyone else!” Steve announced. “It's a welcome home flash sale!"

His smile turned mischievous and he tugged at Jamie’s sweatpants, exposing the merest hint of his pubes and, in the process, encouraging his erection to extend fully in the sweats and point horizontally straight ahead. The drawbridge was now down and fully extended. As Steve walked past Jamie, he slapped him on the arse and whispered in his ear, “Go make us some money, stud.”

And with that he was gone. Jamie stood in the middle of the shop, his cheeks burning. The lad who had his polo shirt was staring fixedly at Jamie’s pronounced tent, his jaw hanging open at the damp patch appearing on the light grey fabric.

Jamie sighed and concluded it was indeed time to make some money.

*  *  *

Quite the welcome back that! I hurried behind the counter to ring up the guy who was buying my polo, but I couldn’t get any cover to hide my erection there either, as it was all glass. Still, it wasn’t as bad as the time Steve made me serve behind it in just a vest and a pair of skimpy briefs which amply showed the contours of the chastity device on special offer that day. To his credit, though, we did do a lot of trade that day. He's a good salesman, I’ll give him that.

Actually, that welcome back day was exhausting; it was a Friday, which was an event night down at the bar. More accurately, it was the first Friday of the month and that was the night Steve traditionally made one of the punter’s dreams come true. It also usually involved me getting forcibly stripped as an antecedent. A small amuse-bouche, if you will, to whet the appetite of the gathered throng. My (involuntary) ‘crowd surf’ was a favourite of his. My clothes lasted barely a handful of seconds after he pushed me into the pit of fabric piranhas. Shreds of my expensive clothes were tossed in the air to whoops and cheers as hands groped me.

Of course, from his vantage point on the stage, Steve had the best view of my resultant nudity as I was passed aloft to the back of the crowd. I'd then have the humiliation of threading my way back through them to get to the stage. Eventually I'd get my trainers back because, as Steve put it, it wouldn't be fair to have me completely naked for the rest of the show. They would, unvaryingly, be returned covered in cum and smelling of piss, though.

Anyway, this night he promised he wasn’t going to rip what I was wearing to expose me to the crowd, that I should wear something real nice without fear. That it would be an easy night where I didn’t have to do much. One thing I’ll say about Steve is that he is true to his word. Every exact word . . .

*  *  *

“Welcome!” Steve shouted out to the massed throng in front of his stage, his hands thrust aloft. “So good to see you all again! Thank you for visiting my humble little sanctuary for like-minded people. Or—as it’s also known—an underground bunker for sick puppies!”

The crowd whooped and cheered in anticipation. Most of them were regulars and already knew what to expect.

“Now,” Steve said with a cheeky grin, “please welcome my beautiful assistant—Jamie!”

Jamie could already feel himself going red in the split second before the wolf whistles and chanting started. He still wasn’t used to such adoration and didn’t feel he particularly merited such attention. Still, he pulled himself up to his full six foot four inches and strode onto the stage with an air of confidence that was mostly faked. Steve snaked an arm around the back of his neck and they kissed passionately for some time, eliciting another cheer from the crowd.

Steve broke off the kiss and returned to addressing the crowd: “Damn, he’s fine, isn’t he? Tastes good! Of course, I’ve fucked every hole enough times that I could find my way to them blindfolded but, of course, I’m not the one who’s usually blindfolded! Anyway, the bad news is I’ve promised Jamie an easy night so he’ll be keeping his clothes on tonight.”

A small moan of disappointment rippled through the crowd. Jamie half shook his head in amazement that anyone really cared that much. He looked down at his white Adidas Chile 62 track pants and tee and was relieved that they would survive the night.

“I know, I know,” Steve continued, “but it’s ‘make a wish come true’ night here at The Sports Bar and we have our biggest one ever—so, without further ado, let’s make some lucky lad’s dream come true!”

A spotlight darted to and fro across the crowd, lighting up faces that ranged from hopeful to nervous. After a minute it slowed and rested on a lad wearing a full white Tottenham football kit. His eyes widened in surprise, then settled on a heady mix of nervous excitement. His boyfriend, arm draped across his shoulders, gave him a knowing smile and a pat on the arse.

Jamie jumped down to usher the still bewildered lad onto the stage. Steve put an arm around the lucky winner’s shoulder and pulled him in tight. "Welcome, Pete! We are here to make your dreams come true."

"Um, hi. Thanks . . ." His eyes darted around nervously.

“So,” Steve went on, “you have a kink which isn’t shared by your boyfriend, I think? That’s okay, we don’t have to have all the same interests in a loving relationship. It’s healthy—Jamie and I have differing tastes at times but, luckily, we both enjoy me fucking him hard until he squeals like a piggy.”

Steve cast a wicked glance toward Jamie, who quickly looked down and blushed bright red. Steve laughed at his partner’s embarrassment and gave the crowd a conspiratorial glance. He paused a moment, then added, “And, boy, does he squeal!” The crowd roared with laughter, followed by a chorus of ‘oinks’. Steve reached out and pulled his embarrassed lover in tightly, planting a loving kiss on his forehead. “And I wouldn’t change it for the world,” he added. Jamie melted at Steve’s tender words and sincere smile.

“Anyway, we’re not the important ones tonight—Pete is! And I won’t like him to think we were taking the piss . . .”

Pete smiled nervously. He already had an inkling what was going to happen, and Steve’s aside had confirmed it. It appeared he was going to live out his piss fantasies tonight. He looked out into the crowd to his boyfriend, Darryl, who was looking pleased with himself. Pete had been worried for their relationship when he finally came clean that he had a piss kink, and he worried even more when Darryl’s reaction was to say it wasn’t something he was comfortable doing.

Steve turned Pete around so his back was to the crowd and he was facing the thick red theatrical curtain draped around the back of the stage. He disengaged from Jamie and Pete, but in the process made sure they had a supporting arm around each other. Pete’s cock, which had so far been quiet, twitched at the proximity to Jamie. He had always been attracted to him and his shameless love of piss. He hoped that he didn’t have to turn around anytime soon as there was now a visible tent in his white shorts.

Jamie had noticed the movement and slid his arm down from Pete’s shoulder to around his waist, resting his palm squarely on the tent. He started to slowly stroke Pete’s twitching cock, and almost instantly it was fully erect. It was obvious he had no underwear on under the thin football shorts. Jamie gave a small evil smile and gleefully decided if this was his night off, he was going to have some fun!

Pete bit his lip anxiously, aware that his cock was already leaking, turning the front of his thin, white shorts translucent. It was one of the reasons Darryl so loved him in white football shorts and why, very early in their relationship, it became a rule that no underwear was to be worn underneath them. ‘Rule’ was probably too formal a word for the arrangement—it was never actually required—but Pete had quickly learnt that if he went commando in football shorts Darryl seemed to lose control. He would kiss pretty much every inch of Pete’s body; it made Pete feel like he was being worshipped, and he loved it. Then, he would lie back as Darryl’s tongue wended its way down his torso, heading inevitably for Pete's thick, erect shaft.

Standing on the stage now, with Jamie teasing his cock and Darryl watching from the crowd, Pete swallowed hard. His thoughts were not helping the situation one bit. He looked down and saw his cock head entirely visible through the damp shorts.

His racing thoughts were interrupted by Steve. “So, behind this curtain is my greatest invention ever!” the emcee said, pawing at the curtain playfully. Jamie left off massaging Pete’s tent and tossed his eyes upwards at the unabashed self-congratulation, swearing that Steve thought himself to be some kind of modern-day Isambard Kingdom Brunel. The main difference being, Jamie concluded, that IKB had an incredibly large top hat, whereas Steve had an incredibly large . . .

“Are we ready for the reveal?” Steve shouted at the audience. Not satisfied with the initial response, he tried again, only louder: “Are you asleep?! Are we ready for the reveal?!” Happier with the second response, he tugged a thick yellow cord causing the curtain to fall away.

The audience gasped as a giant glass box was revealed on the stage. It measured several metres wide and had two chairs in the middle, facing the audience. Jamie raised an eyebrow and cast a quizzical look to Steve. He couldn’t help thinking his lover really had upped his game with this one, whatever it was.

Steve caught Jamie’s glance and smiled. He knew exactly what that look was; a heady mix of amazement and ‘how much did that cost?!’ Making an impression wasn’t cheap, but that look was priceless.

“Well, there we go. Do you like?” Steve asked the audience. “It might seem like a giant fish tank, but I call it . . .” He paused theatrically and flashed the crowd a devilish grin. “. . . the Piss Tank!”

The crowd cheered and roared with laughter. Jamie was always amazed at this partner’s ability to whip up the audience, managing to get a positive response from even the most average of puns. He looked across to Steve who smiled back at him. There were Meatloaf-esque beads of sweat dotting Steve’s face and Jamie suddenly realised this was a pretty big thing for Steve; he was actually nervous!

Steve glided across the stage and opened a hidden door in the side. It was about half a metre off the ground and only a metre tall. “Get Pete comfortable, Jamie!” he said, gesturing across to them.

Jamie wryly shook his head and guided his bewildered ward to the door. Pete hesitated at first, then stopped midway when he realised the side profile gave the audience an even clearer view of the large tent he sported in his flimsy football shorts. After Jamie prodded him—not unsympathetically—he climbed into the glass cube with a mixture of resignation and excitement, and sat down in the black leatherette seat. Jamie followed him into the tank and immediately noticed the restraints on the arms and legs of the chair. Having been well-trained, he stooped down and started fastening them around Pete’s legs.


“Hmmm, this is a bit tricky . . .” he muttered. “Let me just . . .” He leaned forward until his head was almost in Pete’s lap. “There we go!” he exclaimed a moment later, craning his neck to smirk up to Pete. While playing at fumbling with the restraints some more, he parted his lips and dropped his head to suck on Pete’s cock through the shiny white shorts. Pete gasped in surprise and his fit body tensed.

Although slightly surprised at his partner’s ad lib, Steve turned back to the crowd and addressed Pete’s boyfriend. “So, Darryl, as you can see, I did install a second seat just in case you wanted to join in the fun . . .”

Daryll firmly shook his head. “No way, this is his kink, not mine!” he replied to a few boos from the crowd. Steve nodded, then stepped forward to the edge of the stage. “Hey!” He called out to the audience to firmly cut off the objections. Returning to his usual friendly tone he continued, “It’s okay. Not everyone is into everything and couples do not all have to have the same interests. Daryll has done a wonderful thing for the man he loves, and that is all that matters.” A ripple of applause emanated from the chastened crowd. Steve smiled. “Better! That’s what I expect from my people!”

Jamie had just finished fastening the last restraint on Pete’s arm as Steve offered the tank’s second chair to Daryll. When Daryll turned it down, a feeling of sudden dread washed over Jamie. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but something was nagging at the back of his head.

“But it’s such a shame for the extra seat to go to waste on the first go . . .” Steve said to the audience, feigning disappointment. His elaborate frown suddenly morphed into a smirk and he turned to face Jamie, who was still standing inside the tank after getting Pete ‘comfortable’.

“Oh,” Jamie said as the last pieces fell into place. He glanced across to the opening in the side of the tank. It was two metres away whereas Steve was a good four metres across the stage. As his fight or flee response kicked in, he turned, making a dash for the opening.

“Oh, Jamie . . .” Steve said laughing. He lifted a small fob from his pocket, pointed it at the cube and clicked it.

Jamie had covered only half the distance to the opening when it resoundingly snapped shut. His momentum—and a desperate hope—carried him forward anyway, and he unceremoniously face-planted the now solid glass side of the tank. He spun around, mouth hanging open at the giggling Steve. “Open this door, Steve!” he yelled.

“Sorry, no can do.”

“Yes, you can! Let me out!”

Steve pointed to the top of the tank’s back wall. Jamie turned around and looked up. A sizable digital display was affixed to it. The green digits on the black background had started to count down.

“Time locked, innit!” Steve gloated. “Don’t worry, the door will open in, oooh, let’s see—three hours and fifty-nine minutes. There or thereabouts. You may as well take a seat, Jamie. There’s one waiting for you.”

Jamie scowled at his partner, feeling betrayed at the apparent lie that Steve had peddled earlier about this being an easy night.

As if reading his mind, Steve said, “And before you get huffy, I promised you an easy night without your clothes getting destroyed. What could be easier than sitting down for four hours?”

Jamie closed his eyes and sighed. Realising it hadn’t been a lie, but the exact truth—to the word—he trudged across the tank and flopped into the second chair. The chair he now realised had always been destined to have him sat on it.

“And,” Steve went on, “just to ensure you stay there and don’t start making Pete’s life a misery—yes, I did notice you teasing him earlier. Naughty Jamie!” He raised the fob and clicked it again, then watched with delight as a safety bar used in roller coaster seats flipped over and locked Jamie in place before he could react. Jamie shook his head in resignation, slightly taken aback by how much his partner had upped the game.

Steve turned back to the audience. “While they get comfortable, I’d like to apologise that many of the usual urinals are out of action right now. I hope the temporary replacements have been okay. I know it’s a bit of a trek up the stairs, but while we renovate, needs must.” He spread his hands in apology, then broke into a big smile. “Oh! While we are on that subject . . .” He pointed the fob at the back wall of the stage and clicked it again. The audience let out a collective gasp as a section of the wall above the tank began to rise, revealing the temporary facilities the crowd had been using all night.

They were now staring into the temporary urinal room. A see-through wall sported see-through urinals; it was obvious that anyone who used them now would be in clear view of the onlooking audience. Murmurs of excitement spread across the room like wildfire.

“I need a volunteer . . .” Steve looked around the room theatrically before settling on one person. “Daryll? You’ve been downing them back all night—feel like a piss yet?”

“Of course!” Daryll shouted back. He beamed as he made his way to the stairs leading up to the temporary (and transparent) bathroom.

“Time for a science lesson!” Steve announced in his best emcee voice, whipping out a pair of geeky black framed glasses and placing them on his face. “Clever glasses, innit! Okay, are you ready, Darryl?”

Darryl gave him a thumbs up and Steve returned the signal. Darryl shucked down his football shorts, allowing them to fall down past his football socks so they pooled around his Nike Tns. Steve looked at the audience and they were, to a man, looking up above the stage at the thick cock that had just been revealed. Then, a strong stream of piss began hitting the back of the urinal and flowing down a see-through pipe.

“And so it begins!” Steve exclaimed. In a perverse version of show-and-tell, he gestured toward the apparatus and explained what was happening. “The fluid moves down the pipe into a temporary holding tank. That’s where some very special magic happens. The dual action of a silver coated tank and a short burst of heat ensure the fluid is sterilised—Health and Safety innit—and then . . .”

Right on cue, the liquid reappeared and travelled through another see-through pipe toward the main tank where Jamie and Pete were locked in their chairs. As the crowd began to fidget and strain with anticipation, a klaxon sounded and lights began to flash. When they stopped a moment later, an overhead sprinkler system sprayed the piss onto the captives below. Jamie flinched as he felt the first drops land in his hair, but it was over almost as soon as it started and there was barely enough to even dampen his Adidas Chile tee.

“Hmm . . .” said Steve, sounding disappointed. “Well, it works, I suppose. Not quite the spectacle I was hoping for. It needs more juice, so to speak.” He raised his fob and clicked it again.

This time, a spotlight shot out across the auditorium, illuminating a hitherto obscured third tank. It was much bigger than the second one and nearly full of yellow liquid. The audience oohed and aahed.

“Luckily, I’ve been collecting all your piss so far this evening,” Steve explained. “That’s a fifty-litre tank, by the way. Thank you so much for your generous donations!” He grinned and took off his clever specs. “Shall we?”

A raucous cheer went up from the audience and, conducted by Steve, they began a countdown from ten. When they reached zero, he clicked his fob again. The klaxon rang out, lights flashed, and inside the main tank Jamie squeezed his eyes closed, his mind roiling with a heady mixture of excitement and dread.

Within seconds, piss cascaded down on Pete and Jamie. Pete, who had been embarrassed earlier by the damp patch on his shorts that had been caused by Jamie, needn’t have worried—they, as well as his white shirt, were more translucent all over, affording the crowd a good view of everything that was beneath. Jamie, whose hair was now pasted flat on his scalp and dripping freely down his face and neck, soon felt the piss invade his Ralph Lauren briefs and envelope his (very erect) penis.

As the audience stepped up its cheering with catcalls and whistles, the bottom of the tank was soon covered with about half an inch of yellow liquid. Jamie gave into temptation and tapped his Adidas Stan Smith trainers in the rising puddle of piss, splashing more on himself and Pete in the process. Pete, whose kink confession to Darryl had set all this in motion, was truly in his element and had a deliriously happy look on his face. Darryl watched from above, his arms thrust aloft in celebration.

Steve, in every sense the master of the ceremonies, looked on at the tableaux with relieved satisfaction. But he was far from done. “We still have work to do, guys,” he exhorted the crowd. “Don’t forget, it’s good to hydrate, so we will be providing a pint of water with every drink sold!” He smirked towards the crowd. “Before it’s all over, I think our performers might be in up to their necks . . .?”

*  *  *

Up to our necks was a bit optimistic, but it was certainly chest high. Who knew several hundred people could generate so much piss in four hours? My nice gear was never the same again; it was completely stained. I still wear it though.

That was probably the most extreme thing Steve has done, in terms of scale at least. I sometimes think the smaller events are better. Ones that generate tension. I particularly like the ‘Play Your Cock Right’ game. Two contestants picked from the crowd have to guess how many lads answered a certain way in a survey—on topic questions like ‘Out of 100 people surveyed in this bar, how many like cock up their arse?’ The contestant whose guess is furthest away from the correct answer to each question has to remove one item of clothing until, finally, one player is naked. If that person gets one more question wrong, they are offered a choice: get fucked by the winner or give him a blow job. In full view of everyone in the bar, of course. The downside of the blow job option is that they only got their underwear back, whereas you’d get all your clothes back if you submitted to being royally fucked. We always try to get two tops to play; that is so much more fun to watch and the £250 prize money on top is the sweetener for the winner.

It starts out with fun and laughter, helped by the offbeat questions, but the tension becomes palpable as the game proceeds and the real jeopardy comes into focus. Then it arrives at that moment where one of the contestants has to decide their fate. I often wonder what goes through their mind at that point. It’s an invidious position to be in for a top, which is why it is so fascinating to me, I suppose.

Once we had a contestant who was adamant that he wasn't getting his arse violated. "I don't get fucked," he stated unequivocally. Steve responded just as unequivocally that he was going to get fucked, one way or the other, and it was only a matter of which hole was going to be fucked. He eventually chose face, which slightly disappointed the crowd, but their disappointment vanished at the sight of him gagging on his opponent’s thick cock sliding down his throat. I suspect he might have thought the final indignity was the copious amounts of cum that the winner sprayed across his face and hair when he pulled out just before erupting.

However, the actual final indignity was Steve cleaning the cum off his face with the skimpy white CK briefs that the defeated lad would be spending the rest of the night in. The lad left the stage crestfallen and dazed, the sodden white underwear showing everything underneath. I felt sorry for him for a moment but his friends soon cheered him up—although they didn’t give him any more clothes to wear! By the end of the evening, he had managed to borrow a pair of battered trainers and a t-shirt for the journey home, but to even get those he had to swallow his pride further. If you get my drift . . .

That's why I like it here. Yes, it's a busy place, a thronging, pulsing mass of pure sexual tension. Fit lads, in fit kit, looking for fun and release from the world outside the doors of The Sports Bar. It would be easy to dismiss it as just that, but if you take the time, you can zero in and see the moments between people. Whether that be a lad who has dreamed of being spit roasted and realises it's going to happen tonight, or two people starting out on a journey together, whether they know it or not.

I’m happy to say I've had a hand in starting many relationships here. Steve does it through his shows on the stage but I get to work elsewhere. Just subtly manoeuvring people so they are in the right place at the right time. Steve calls it old fashioned matchmaking, and when you compare it to his take of 'Blind Date'—he calls it 'Glory Hole Dating', where the contestant can 'sample the brain and the cock before making a decision'—I suppose it is. Sometimes, however, there is a chain of events that neither of us could have ever predicted. One of those times started out innocently enough, with Steve informing me I would be taking part in one of his show’s regular features, the ‘Wheel of Misfortune' . . .

*  *  *

They were already standing on-stage, next to the ‘Wheel of Misfortune’, and Steve had caught Jamie off-guard. "What? No way!" Jamie protested. He was already feeling self-conscious (and more than a bit suspicious) after Steve had ‘suggested’ (or ‘insisted’, as Jamie called it) that he wear his running kit that night.

Steve gave him a stern look to let him know the matter wasn't open to discussion, then took a moment to savour the sight of his partner in the tight Lycra Nike Pro t-shirt and short tights he was wearing. “Don't be a New Year's grump, Jamie!" Steve said, then turned to the audience. "Do you think we should spin him naked if he complains again?” Their response was unequivocal.

Jamie cast a glance at the eight forfeits on offer: Completely Fucked, Kick in the Balls, Spilt Milk, Shear Madness, Emergency Extraction, Soggy Biscuit, £1000 Striptease, and Zero Degrees Kelvin; a mix of new adventures and proven crowd favourites. Some were completely self-explanatory; others were slightly more esoteric:

And now Jamie was going to have to submit to one, to satisfy Steve’s dark desires and those of the crowd. He sighed and positioned himself against the 7ft vertical circular turntable, spreading his legs and arms to allow himself to be strapped in.

“Please remove Shear Madness, Sir,” he asked respectfully.

Steve smiled. “Of course!”

Jamie’s relief was immediately tempered by the feeling that Steve had agreed too easily.

Steve motioned off stage and two slaves appeared in nothing more than white briefs. The crowd roared at the arrival of this unexpected young flesh.

"I think it's time for some new options for the new year!" Steve announced.

The slaves attached three new sections to the wheel, replacing ‘Shear Madness’, 'Spilt Milk' and ‘£1000 Striptease’ with ‘Big Baby', 'Milking Machine' and ‘No Underwear’.

Jamie could only guess at these new options. Milking Machine probably meant he was going to be forced to cum repeatedly, probably within a set time or—god forbid—a set quantity. No Underwear seemed self-explanatory but suspiciously simple, and he fervently hoped 'Big Baby' had nothing to do with diapers.

Steve tapped the 'No Underwear' sign. "And how many pairs do you have, Jamie?"

"Over fifty?" answered Jamie.

"How many exactly?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sixty-five, maybe?" Jamie knew that Steve was making a point; he did have too much underwear.

"Let's see then!" He waved to the side of the stage and the two underwear-clad lads brought in a drawered cabinet. With a sinking heart, Jamie recognised it instantly.

Steve opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a pair of AussieBum briefs. He dropped them on the floor and said, "One!". The crowd quickly caught on and counted with Steve for each pair of Jamie's expensive and mostly tasteful underwear that hit the floor. Jamie was simultaneously embarrassed and decidedly worried he had underestimated the total. His fears were confirmed as the total hit fifty, even before the top drawer containing his favourite pairs had been opened.

“Sixty-three . . . sixty-four . . . sixty-five!” Steve announced, then peered in an exaggerated fashion into the open top drawer. “Oh! There seems to be more. Tut tut! You obviously have too many if you don’t know how many you own.” Jamie watched helplessly as Steve reached in and pulled out a handful of Ralph Lauren, CK and D.Hedral briefs. “These extra pairs will give you a good idea of what happens if ‘No Underwear’ is selected . . .”

In one single swift movement he cast the underwear into the crowd. They sailed through the air before being greedily grabbed by the crowd: some snaffled gladly by a single hand, some caught between two hands and unceremoniously ripped apart. Steve smiled and grabbed the final handful from the drawer. Much to Jamie’s horror, he sent those sailing into the frenzied crowd as well, and, in a blink of an eye, over £250 worth of Jamie’s underwear was gone.

“No Underwear means just that,” Steve explained to Jamie with an evil smile. “None in the drawers and none bought for the next year. How’s that for saving money?” Jamie closed his eyes and sighed. He wondered if that was a little dig at him for always telling Steve to spend less on the Bar and his shows.

While this exchange was happening, the slaves on stage were busy fastening Jamie into the Wheel of Misfortune. They nodded at Steve when they were done, and he double-checked the bindings, as he always did, to ensure that the ‘contestant’ was secured and safe.

“Ready, Jamie?” he asked in a taunting voice.

“No!” replied Jamie, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

“Too bad!” chuckled Steve and gave the wheel a huge pull. As it hurtled around, so did Jamie, whipping around at a dizzying pace. He was the pointer in this wheel and whatever his head ended up pointing at was the misfortune he had to endure.

It seemed like an age to Jamie, but after just over thirty seconds, the wheel slowed and stopped. He opened his eyes to see Steve’s face peering at him upside down. After only a second of disorientation, Jamie realised he had come to a stop upside down. And from the angle Steve was stooped, he obviously had ended up off-centre too. Maybe south-west, he figured. But the room was still spinning for him so he had no idea what fate he’d landed on.

“Ha ha—Big Baby!” chortled Steve. He winked at the audience. “You lucky people are going to get to see Jamie in just a diaper and trainers for the rest of the evening!”

The crowd cheered with excitement while Jamie tried to get his head around what was happening. He didn’t get long to adjust to his new reality, however.

“Right, let’s get these off then!” Steve exclaimed, pointing a pair of shears at his clothes.

Jamie didn’t need to look; he felt his kit’s tightness release as Steve used the shears to slice down the leg of his Nike Pro running tights. In a single move he continued on to the matching Nike Pro tee. A few extra snips and Jamie’s expensive running gear fell past his eyes in pieces and landed on the floor. He went red instantly as he realised his tiny cock was on display again for all to see.

“Oh my gosh, Jamie!” Steve said, feigning embarrassment. “Y’all naked!” He turned to the audience and together they shouted “Don’t tell Clive!” Steve waggled his little finger at the crowd who laughed and called out.

Jamie was well aware that his dick was nothing to write home about, not even to tweet about. He had long ago accepted that he had a small cock. Tiny, worthless and pathetic, as Steve took great pleasure reminding him while pounding his arse with his own larger cock.

One of the slaves humbly presented Steve with a diaper. The emcee took it, but then stopped and stroked his chin. He turned to the crowd. “I think there is a problem here—do you?” he prodded.

There was a murmur in the crowd as they discussed the problem. Eventually, one lad put his hand up. Steve acknowledged him—"We are not at school!” he responded with a laugh.

“Ha, yeah, um, babies don’t have hairy bodies?” the lad suggested.

“Excellent point!” said Steve in mock surprise. As if that wasn’t exactly where he was going. “Let’s fix that!”

Jamie, still hanging upside down on the Wheel of Misfortune, was feeling quite faint and wasn’t really following what was going on. Steve noticed the rolling eyes and righted him in the wheel. Jamie instantly felt a bit better until he remembered he was splayed naked in front of hundreds of horny strangers. To make matters worse, one of Steve’s slaves was wheeling a trolley toward him across the stage. The lad had stayed with them for the last three months, and Jamie had given him a whole basket of teasing. Now, as the slave flashed him a wicked grin, Jamie realised that every last tease—and maybe then some—was about to come home to roost.

Steve donned a pair of latex gloves from the trolley, picked up a tube of cream and started to squeeze some into his hands. When he started rubbing it onto Jamie's legs, Jamie gasped at the unexpected coolness of it. Steve gave him a smile and continued the process until both legs were slathered in cream.

He moved on to Jamie's chest, massaging the cream in and eliciting a small moan of pleasure from his captive. He leant in and gave Jamie a kiss. Despite being more than a bit peeved at the situation, Jamie responded. His cock responded too, standing upright.

Steve broke off the kiss to replenish the cream and then smeared it into Jamie's armpits. Soon, Jamie's body was covered from neck to toe in hair removal cream. He looked down at the absurd sight of his body covered in white cream—apart from his cock and balls, the former standing proudly to attention. The audience, who now had a clear sight of him, erupted with wolf whistles and catcalls. Jamie felt his cheeks redden again.

"Now, it's not possible to use this cream here," Steve said, pointing at Jamie's exposed cock. Jamie sighed in relief. Steve winked and continued: "Which is why we have an 'intimate' cream! I don't know why products suddenly become 'intimate' or 'athletic' when we get to this area."

Jamie's eyes widened as the realisation sank in that he wasn't going to have a single hair left on his body below the neck. They widened even further as Steve applied the cool cream to his arse crack, then onto his balls. When Steve moved on to his erect penis and started rubbing it up and down, it was too much for Jamie to take. He bit his lip. When that didn’t work, he groaned, "Umm, Steve . . ."

"Yes, Jamie?"

"Can you . . . aargh. . . stop, please?" Jamie pleaded in a strained voice.

Instead, Steve stood to one side so the audience could see that he was openly wanking Jamie off.

“Please!” Jamie tried again, his humiliation growing. With a mind of its own, so was his erection. “Please stop . . .”

Steve feigned a look of indecision for the crowd. “What do you think?” he asked them. “Should I stop?”

The answer was immediate, prolonged and unequivocal. “Hell, no!” the spectators roared back.

With an evil grin, Steve redoubled his efforts. As everyone in the room—including Jamie—knew, Jamie never stood a chance.

As the audience cheered Steve on, Jamie’s turgid cock began visibly twitching. “Please . . . stop,” he managed to croak one more time before his plea turned into a moan, and then finally morphed into a guttural “Fuck!” His body shook violently as a fountain of cum erupted into the air.

The crowd went wild at the unexpected sight of Jamie's balls being drained in such a humiliating fashion. They certainly hadn’t expected to see this when they walked through the door of The Sports Bar tonight! Indeed, a few standing at the front had been caught unawares and ended up with some of Jamie’s jizz in their hair and on their faces.

"Tiny cock, but huge balls!" Steve said beaming. "Okay guys,” he added, gesturing to the cream he had spread all over his partner’s body, “this stuff needs to stay on for 15 minutes, and then the slaves will remove it—" he flashed an evil smile, "along with all of Jamie's hair! Why don't you go get a refill at the bar and we'll see you soon?”

While some of the patrons drifted away, taking Steve’s advice, Jamie was glad of the cream covering his body since it was probably entirely red from embarrassment. He wondered for a moment as his cock softened and drooled remnants of cum onto the floor, how it came to be that he was constantly being shown off. What worried him even more was the possibility that he actually was starting to like it.

*  *  *

I still have no idea what the “don’t tell Clive” reference is about. It dated from before my time and Steve always took great pleasure in obstinately not telling me.

Anyway, after a while the two slaves started to scrape the cream off me; they definitely seemed to be enjoying all this far too much! Looking down I could see smooth pink hairless skin being revealed and, for the first time, had an inkling of what I was going to look like across my whole body. It was not a happy thought. But I was too drained to resist in any way. After all, what would be the point?

Once they were done Steve instructed them to wash me down. He ‘helped’ by throwing a bucket of cold water at me for starters. I couldn’t help but yell “What the fuck, Steve?!” Steve, the slaves and the crowd found that incredibly amusing. The water was so cold! Steve later confided that he had kept it in the freezer for a while. I had goosebumps all over my body after being drenched with it—and the less said about what it did to my already small ‘intimate parts’, the better.

I wasn’t quite as angry when, as one of the slaves was crouched down cleaning my legs with a large yellow sponge, Steve dumped a bucket of cold water on him too. The slave jumped up and spun around, his arms spread wide and his mouth gaping in shock. He quickly looked down at his skimpy white briefs and saw, to his embarrassment, they had turned translucent. Like me, everything was on display for the crowd.

I roared with laughter. So did the other slave—until he realised all eyes were on him now. This wasn’t a good time to be odd man out. He looked around furtively for an escape route but before he could make a break for it, Steve enveloped him in a bear hug from behind and lifted him up. When he gave the soaked slave a meaningful look the lad did not need any further invitation; he rushed over to his fellow slave and, nimbly dodging flailing legs, pulled down his briefs.

Steve released the now naked Slave #2 who immediately made a beeline towards the soaked Slave #1. A comical chase ensued, until Slave #2 managed to grab a handful of Slave #1’s wet briefs. He yanked them up high in a wedgie that would have won awards if it had been Wedgie Night at the bar. The other slave’s eyes bulged out and he let loose with a yelp of embarrassment and pain.

Steve, who was a good deal taller than both of them, grabbed the naked Slave #2 around the waist and lofted him skywards. Slave #2 had refused to let go of #1’s underwear, so #1’s feet were also lifted clean off the ground. He was yelling loudly as the wedgie crushed his cock and balls, and it was a blessed relief when he finally heard the fabric of his briefs begin to tear. In short order, his ordeal was over and he went tumbling to the ground. Now, there was as a trio of naked and exposed men on the stage.

Steve picked up the remains of the briefs and tossed them into the crowd. He looked pretty happy with the unplanned sideshow that had occurred. The slaves, after exchanging a rueful look, unlocked my spread-eagled (and smooth, hairless) legs so they could slip on my diaper. They then applied a liquid all over my body which Steve ensured the crowd would inhibit any hair growth for the next three months.

My heart sank at that; it was certainly a great misfortune! But I was relieved that this part of my ordeal was finally over. Or at least that’s what I thought—Steve always has a multipart plan up his sleeve.

And a back-up down his pants . . .

*  *  *

“Ahh, doesn’t he look as cute as pie!” gushed Steve. “But, wait—where’s his dummy?” He turned to the audience with a wink and a knowing smile. “I’m sure he’ll find something to suck on by the end of the evening!”

When the crowd roared with appreciation Jamie rolled his eyes. Not for the first time, he thought that Steve could have stood on the stage repeating ‘cock’ for an hour and they’d still laugh. He noticed Steve stroking his chin, a sure sign that something was up.

“Hmmm . . .” Steve mused. “There is something wrong though.” He walked over to Jamie and tousled his hair. “I know—babies don’t have this much hair!”

Jamie’s eyes widened in panic. “No, Steve!”

Steve responded by putting a finger on his partner’s lips. “Shush, Jamie! Babies don’t speak either!”

Jamie knew it was just role playing but he was startled at the rebuke. “But Steve . . .” he tried again.

Steve put on a stern face and narrowed his eyes. “I do not want to hear another word from your mouth unless it’s ‘goo’ or ‘gaa’. Understand? Don’t make me have to spank you!”

Jamie nodded obediently; the crowd lapped it up. Steve leant in towards his partner.

“One day I will take your hair, but not tonight,” he whispered into Jamie’s ear.

He returned to addressing the crowd. “I think for tonight he can stay as he is. And I mean the whole of tonight!”

Jamie was relieved he wasn’t getting shorn tonight, but it was clear that the Sword of Damocles was rather hanging over him. Maybe the ‘Blade of Steve’, Jamie mused and almost laughed out loud; it still hadn’t quite registered that, for the rest of the evening, he would be wearing just a nappy, white socks and Nike running shoes—not to mention the only hair left on his body was on his head.

“So,” Steve continued, “I’m going to pay one of you to take Jamie’s place and have a seat in Steve’s Barber Shop!” He looked into the crowd expectantly. When no hands went up, he said in a disappointed voice, “What? No volunteers? Hmmm . . .” He fumbled in his pocket and produced a wallet, which he brandished in the air. “Okay, then, seeing as you are going to take Jamie’s place, he’ll pay you!”

With a groan, Jamie realised that the wallet in Steve’s hand was his!

The emcee thumbed through Jamie’s wallet. “Eight-five pounds! Not bad, but . . . I’ll tell you what—you can choose any ten pairs of Jamie’s undies as additional compensation!”

A second realisation hit Jamie: his expensive underwear was still scattered across the stage. Even though some of it was visibly soaked from the earlier shenanigans, the thought of losing them to strangers preoccupied him more than Steve handing out the cash from his wallet.

This time, the offer had raised some interest, so Steve chose one of the willing participants on offer. The ‘lucky’ lad, wearing a white tee and black North Face track pants, pairing with a slightly battered pair of Air Max 97s, bounded on stage with a stupid grin on his face. He had obviously had a few jars.

“Welcome to Steve’s Barbers!” Steve proclaimed with outspread arms and a big smile. He draped an arm around the North Face lad and asked, “Why did you agree to this?”

“Free money, free boxers and a free haircut innit!” he said enthusiastically to a cheer from his friends.

“You know this isn’t just any haircut, right?” the emcee asked him.

“Oh, right. Isn’t it?”

Steve grinned. “I choose the cut.”

“Oh. Right.” Suddenly, the lad looked a little nervous. He unconsciously touched his blond crop mop of hair.

“But it is free, innit?” Steve reminded him. “And of course . . .” He made a show of stuffing the money into a front pocket of the lad’s trackies, lingering just long enough to know the lad was loving this. Deep down, underneath his boxer shorts.

The still naked slaves wheeled out a black barber’s style chair. Steve gently but firmly seated the lad and draped a sheet around his neck.

“Ready?” Steve asked, and before the lad could answer he ploughed the clippers down the middle of his head, scattering hair everywhere. The lad jumped, partly at the suddenness of what had just happened and partly at the loud guttural growl of the clippers as they obliterated his hair. He reached up and touched the stubble on his head.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, much to the amusement of the crowd and, in particular, his friends.

A few passes later and his whole head was reduced to stubble. He was bewildered at the speed that his blond mop had moved from his head to the floor.

“How would you like free drinks and entry for the next four Saturdays?” asked Steve.

“Oh. Yeah, cool,” the lad replied. Then, suddenly wary: “What do I have to do?”

“Do?” answered Steve. “You don’t have to do anything. I have to shave your head completely.”

“What, like with a Bic razor?”

“Ooo, we’ve got a sharp one here!” Steve joked with the crowd. “But not as sharp as my razor . . . Shall we begin?”

*  *  *

That poor lad didn’t know what hit him; after his scalp was expertly razor shaved, Steve convinced him to shave his own eyebrows off and have the hair growth inhibitor applied to his head. For that final indignity Steve offered him my brand new £200 pair of running shoes! The shaven lad took them right off my feet and put them on his with a huge smile. He paused and glanced at me, then thoughtfully put his skanky old 97s on my feet. (I thanked him. Of course I did, I'm British after all.) He also went away with an extra £250 and more of my underwear and, as Steve quipped, would “save loads on haircuts in the coming months”.

But I digress. The reason I mentioned this story is later that evening I saw the lad hook up with another completely shaved lad. After that night, they came back often, always together now, and I never saw a single hair on that lad’s head ever again. It always made me think, what would have happened if I hadn’t ‘chosen’ Big Baby as my misfortune—would they ever have gotten it together? It seems unlikely, I think; fate, assisted by Steve and myself, had stepped in. Although part of me always thinks that fate finds a way to bring two people together, and if it doesn’t succeed at the first attempt, it will bloody well keep trying in ever stranger ways. You only have to look at how Steve and I met—that’s Exhibit One right there.

Soon after, we got to go to a ‘reunion’ in America. I say reunion but we didn’t know half the people there. It wasn’t for us, though, it was organised by my former neighbour to bring together everyone who had helped him through his journey. I’ve never seen him happier. I remember all the very dark times, the times he used to visit me and I would 'intervene'. He seems to be able to talk about Scott now. What he meant to him. What he still does and how he always will.

The other person I knew was my former flatmate, Dan. He was of course the only reason I stepped foot into The Sports Bar that night. The reason I met Steve in the first place—and to think I almost didn’t go! I’ll forgive him for his duplicitous behaviour in tricking me, I guess. I wonder what that earlier version of me back then would have thought if he had known that what happened on stage that night was going to be the template for the rest of his life? I suspect he would have run a mile.

Dan and Drew (Steve's former slave) seem really happy together, which is so sweet. I love how their relationship has evolved, forever teasing each other, never being able to leave each other alone. Dan follows Drew around like a puppy wherever he goes. And Drew loves it.

The most intriguing person I met there was another Alpha—a dashing gentleman indeed. His arrival turned out to be quite the entrance . . .

*  *  *

Ahh, our final guests have arrived . . . Everyone, this is Jamie and Steve!” my ex-neighbour's Controller announced with a flourish. I instantly detected a frosty glare between Steve and another one of the guests; they obviously knew each other.

“Oh, it’s you . . .” said Mr Hellier, bristling with contempt.

“Yes, indeed. I heard you retired, and not before time . . .” answered Steve with a similar air of frostiness.

“That is indeed correct,” Mr Hellier responded. “A wise man once said to me that you should get out of the game before it’s too late . . .” He purposefully looked Steve up and down from head to toe, then added, “. . . advice you could certainly take heed of, my boy.”

Steve bristled at the insult. “I’m in the best shape of my life! What about you, old man?”

“Oh, I am good, thank you for asking. I just do not have the urge to always be flaunting it around. Such bad taste. Not that that has ever been a concern of yours.”

I looked at my ex-neighbour, who cast a glance at his Controller, who cast a glance back to me. This was unexpected drama. It really was a small world!

Mr Hellier offered a half smile, “I could have you in a headlock and chained up in seconds, boy. I know you crave the old days . . .”

Steve narrowed his eyes and shot back, “And how did that work out last time, old man?”

Mr Hellier chuckled. “Okay, I will admit, last time you did get the better of me.” He pursed his lips and then narrowed his eyes too. “But every time before that my cock was so firmly down your epiglottis or up your anus that if there were two of me I would have met myself in the middle . . . boy.”

Steve’s eyes widened and his cheeks went beet red, seemingly surprised that Mr Hellier would reveal such information in public. He shot a panicked glance across to me, and I was barely able to stifle a snigger.

“Well, that’s the pleasantries over with. Shall we proceed?” enquired Mr Hellier, sporting a broad smile.

*  *  *

They continued to bump heads to begin with, but what do you expect with two Alphas in the room, both of them with a liking for bondage and restraints and expected to be the centre of attention—and, my god, they both did love being the centre of attention! As the evening went on, their back-and-forth descended into gentle ribbing. Maybe that’s all it was to begin with—there was history there for sure. I made a mental note to ask Steve about it later.

They were both very different but also similar in many ways. Mr Hellier was older in both dress and manner. Well, I say older but I don’t think he was actually much older than us. He and I found that we had some things in common too. Specifically, that we didn’t do dancing. So, while everyone else was throwing shapes on the dance floor, we were chatting.

He complimented me on my clothes; I had gone smart(ish) with chinos and a polo shirt. It was a look he obviously appreciated. He invited me to pop into his boutique in Shepherds Bush, where I would receive “a most generous and special discount.” I thanked him and took his card—it was certainly an offer I would take up. Who could refuse a discount that was at once both ‘generous’ and ‘special’? Mr Hellier was obviously a master of his craft.

He was also appreciative of the high and tight flattop I sported (Steve had finally got his way just before we left for the reunion; it was inevitable, really.)

“I hope you do not think me to be too impertinent,” Mr Hellier said in a tone that suggested he didn’t much care if I thought him impertinent or not. “But I must say you and Steve are good for each other. Such symmetry. Yin and Yang, I think.”

Briefly, his eyes met mine and that’s when I saw it. I mean, most would not even notice, but I did; his eyes and the slight resting of the flick of his smile betrayed him. The mask had dropped, just for a moment, but it was enough to glimpse the sadness and pain hitherto hidden from public view.

“Sometimes in this life we bump into the perfect counterfoil,” he told me. “When that happens, you must thank the stars and just go for it. Do not overthink. Do not hesitate. Ride the wave. Be happy.” He rested his hand on my knee and sighed heavily. “We never can know how long we are blessed with such good fortune . . .”

His voice trailed off wistfully, and for a few moments we sat in our silence. Then he patted my thigh, and that lingering, tender moment was gone. “Don’t waste a moment, my boy. Not a moment, do you hear me?” he barked, his voice full with bristling command again.

It was a brief, vulnerable moment in time but I remember it as clear as day. I will never know what misfortune he had suffered. What he had lost. But that encounter prompted me to make the decision to finally quit my job and go full-time with Steve. All in. For as long as I was blessed with good fortune.

I proposed to Steve the next day with the ring I had been carrying for the last month. Up until that point, I had never found the right moment. And when I say ‘right moment’ I really mean courage.

I’m much happier now. Happier but poorer. I know I can cope with that, though.

It’s fair to say that one conversation changed everything. A random encounter with a stranger, a gentle word of encouragement; it’s amazing what words can do. How they can change lives in an instant. Words matter, they always have and always will. We tend to overthink and internalise. Complicate things unnecessarily. That’s why a complete stranger can offer advice that can change your life.

Those were heady carefree days, although in hindsight, we took them for granted. Looking back now it’s hard to believe that just a couple of months after the reunion and that riotous night (weren’t they all?) when Pete and I were showered in our customers’ piss, followed by a spin on the Wheel of Misfortune and ending with the shaving of a lucky punter’s hair and eyebrows, we were closed.

The pandemic had struck.

At first, we were okay, but before long, it became obvious that we would not be able to open anytime soon. Steve didn’t know what to do; his energy and zing just drained away. I think that happened to a lot of people, and it’s hard to watch. It was like he had a slow puncture and, finally, he deflated and kind of just gave up.

I had planned to give up my ‘regular’ job and focus on the fetish store in that spring, but this changed everything. For the time being, I continued in my ‘day job’, and it gave us enough money to keep The Sports Bar ticking over when shuttered. Even when closed there are overheads and bills.

I helped out securing loans and anything else that I could claim. Steve could see that we might just make it through and it gave him some hope. He said to me one day that he didn’t know what he would have done without me. Fortunately, I deal with complicated and lengthy applications in my job so it wasn’t hard, but I could see how it would be for others.

With some hope restored we made some ‘limited edition’ t-shirts that were readily snapped up by our regular punters. We even did a few online gatherings which we called ‘The Sports Bar Sessions’. It was great to be able to catch up with people and to have some laughs.

As the pandemic restrictions started to lift, Steve was eager to do more; starting with my birthday. He insisted that I should have a proper party, albeit a small proper party. He invited four of our closest friends to come over for a wonderful meal that he cooked himself. There were balloons, champagne, party poppers and great company. Everything that a party should be.

By dessert, I was very drunk which was obviously Steve’s plan all along. I am very compliant when half cut so it took no effort at all on the part of the five of them to strip me naked and strap me to the bondage bench. Once that was done, Steve produced a birthday cake and everyone proceeded to sing “Happy Birthday”.

As soon as the last off-key note faded from the air, Steve mouthed ‘I love you’ at me—and, without so much as a warning, slammed the cake into my face. The gooey chocolate covered my head with a splat! Since my mouth was open in surprise, I at least got to taste it; it was delicious!

Steve leant in and kissed me, smearing a good deal of the mess onto his own face. He nibbled a bit of the wrecked cake from my face, making appreciative noises. He said our other guests had desserts too. I looked over to see all four holding a dessert and all four were completely naked. My mouth dropped open. “I said you’d get your just desserts!” Steve cackled. I groaned but inside I was happy that the real Steve was back, dreadful puns and all.

One by one the desserts were delivered. Tiramisu to my feet and legs and a sherry trifle to my cock and balls—that was a shock! For the final dessert, Steve lifted my backside off the table and a short while later pushed it back down into what I later found out was a Black Forest Gateau. It was an ironic place for cherries to end up . . .

Steve clapped and told everyone to tuck in. I then had to endure four fantastic guys eating cake from my naked body. That quickly morphed into licking and then, well, you can guess; we were all quite the mess afterwards. And yes, the Black Forest Gateau was fully consumed!

The affair was on a small intimate scale but it was definitely a welcome reminder of the pre-pandemic Steve. He was back! Before long, he started to make plans for the reopening of ‘his bar’. We spent some money on a refurb to make sure ‘his bar’ was ready to go as soon as it could.

His bar.

Maybe I was a fool to ever think that it would be anything else but ‘Steve’s Bar’, but that soon became a moot point. A week or so before we were due to reopen, a fire broke out and gutted the place. Apparently, it was due to some tools or equipment being used in the renovation. That’s really why I wanted to write down some of these memories. To create a record, to record those memories that went up in smoke that night.

To mark the end of an era. The end of The Sports Bar.

It pretty much tipped Steve over the edge. After all those dark times, after everything we’d been through, after everything we did to save it, the bar was taken away in an instant. Just dumb luck. I tried to keep an eye on Steve as much as possible, to make sure he didn’t do anything, well . . . stupid, but I couldn’t be there twenty-four hours a day. I had to go back to work to keep some money coming in while we waited on the insurance. About a fortnight later, I came home one evening to find he had gone.

I went out and searched everywhere—bars, parks, railway bridges . . . After several hours of fruitless and, at times, frantic random searches I got a call on my phone. I looked at the screen—Steve. My heart should have skipped a beat of happiness but instead it was filled with dread. I was the ‘emergency contact’ on his phone and my tired mind instantly went down that avenue . . .

*  *  *

“Hello?” answered Jamie nervously. His heart was pounding.

“Jamie!” came the cheerful response down the phone. Jamie felt slightly faint with relief, slightly embarrassed that he had got so caught up in his overactive imagination. All that soon passed and he was left with a lingering but relieved annoyance.

“Steve!” he practically shouted into the phone. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried!”

“Ah. Sorry about that. I should have left a note or a text but I was too excited. Oh Jamie, you wouldn’t believe what’s happened. You just won’t fucking believe it!”

*  *  *

He was right. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sound of his voice from that call. It coursed with an excitement and energy that I hadn’t heard in a long time, fuelled by pure emotion. You see, it seems while we were trying to navigate our way to a life without The Sports Bar, other people had other ideas.

Unbeknown to us, a group of our regulars had set up a crowdfunding page for the sole purpose of rebuilding the bar. The effort had taken off and within a week had reached over fifty thousand pounds. That’s when they called and asked him to meet them at the site of the old bar. And it was from there he had called me, just as he found out himself.

Ever since then, whenever there is a bump in our relationship road—and there always is when you aim to spend your life with another person—I hold on to that thought that in that moment of supreme elation, all Steve wanted to do was phone me. To share that moment with me.

Our customers—friends, really—didn’t stop at just raising the money to rebuild The Sports Bar. Offers to help came in from builders, carpenters, equipment suppliers too—it seems our community does touch every corner of life. We are legion! The next day, I saw Steve just gazing at his phone with a weird look on his face. A look of happiness and incredulity. He was touched beyond belief that people would do this for us. That what he did was important to people. That it seemed to matter.

Steve is beyond excitement about us being nearly up and running again. He’s very much the definition of a performer; he loves being on stage and getting the crowd whipped up into a frenzy. Once again, his head is filled with new ideas and games, buoyed by the fact that people want him to be as extravagant as possible. And boy, let me tell you, they are not going to be disappointed! I dread to think what he’s got planned because, as you are well aware, I tend to be the ‘star’ of his fiendish toys and games. He does so like to show me off and embarrass me. I might get used to that eventually.

And we now have a “Hero's Wall”—a named brick for everyone who helped out and made all this possible. I sometimes catch Steve just staring at that wall or lightly running his fingers across the names. I don't think he'll ever forget a single name.

So that’s where we are now—fixing up the final snagging list ready for the grand re-opening next week. The start of a new era. The start of ‘The New Sports Bar’.

The start of ‘Our Bar’.


Tales From The Sports Bar - The Ballad of Jamie and Steve by sneaked666
Edited by sz1415sneakers

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